


The Christmas Miracle Affair

by Hils



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:21:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5416895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hils/pseuds/Hils
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon keeps himself busy in the days leading up to Christmas, knowing that he and Illya will be able to celebrate together when Illya gets back from his current assignment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Christmas Miracle Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spikesgirl58](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/gifts).



> Down The Chimney Affair 2015 gift for spikesgirl58. The prompts were caroling, sleigh bells and a surprise gift under the tree.
> 
> Thanks to wildernessfan for the beta!

This isn’t the first Christmas Napoleon and Illya have spent apart and, their jobs being what they are, it won’t be the last. They both love their jobs too much to get overly sentimental about spending the holidays together and have resigned themselves to sharing moments together when they can. Last year they actually did get to spend Christmas together. Granted it involved being locked in a cell together and being intermittently tortured and interrogated before they managed to escape. But they were still together. 

So Napoleon keeps himself busy in the days leading up to Christmas, knowing that he and Illya will be able to celebrate together when Illya gets back from his current assignment. Napoleon trims the tree in his apartment, buys gifts and wraps them, goes out for drinks with members of Section Two who aren’t on a mission and mails out cards to his friends and family. Each of the cards to his family members contains a polite apology for declining the invitation to stay with them for the holidays. Even ignoring the fact that he could be called on assignment at any moment, he wants to be home when Illya gets back and since he has no idea when that will be he’s opted out of making any other plans. Illya could be home tomorrow or it could be next week. It entirely depends how long it takes him to ‘liberate’ the files from the Thrush base he’s been sent to infiltrate. Regardless, the idea of Illya coming home to an empty apartment is out of the question. Napoleon is quite happy to endure a few days of solitude so Illya has someone there when he comes home. 

Idly, Napoleon wonders when he became so attached to the idea of making Illya happy. When they’d first started sleeping together it had been casual, something they did between missions (or sometimes during them), but never anything serious. Except somewhere along the way it had become serious. Napoleon had found he was less and less interested in dating other people until he stopped doing it altogether. Now Illya has a key to Napoleon’s apartment and clothes in Napoleon’s closet. It was just something that had progressed naturally. Was this what love was? Not a huge explosion of feelings, but just the gradual coming together of two people who cared a great deal for each other. He supposed it didn’t matter. Neither of them was interested in putting a label on their relationship. It just was what it was. 

He hasn’t spoken to Illya in over twenty four hours now, which happens sometimes when one or both of them is on a mission. Still, it itches at the back of his mind now, although he’s trying not to think about it. The last time they’d spoken Illya was getting his plan ready to put into action and at the end of their conversation he’d wished Napoleon a Merry Christmas. ‘Just in case,’ Illya had said. Just in case he wasn’t able to radio in on Christmas, Napoleon told himself. He wasn’t willing to think about any other sort of ‘just in case.’

Outside he can hear carolers singing and he can’t stop himself from smiling. For all his stoic rejection of all things sentimental, Illya loves carolers, one time going so far as to drag Napoleon outside in the snow just so they could listen for a few minutes. Napoleon can still see the smile on Illya’s face, his cheeks and nose turning pink from the cold. They’d kissed when they’d retreated back to the privacy of Napoleon’s apartment. Not their first kiss, but one of the most memorable ones. 

With the memory still in his mind Napoleon fixes himself a light supper and listens to one of Illya’s records with a drink in his hand. He hates jazz, and suspects that to his dying day he and Illya will never agree when it comes to music, but having it on in the background feels familiar. Almost like it’s breaching a gap somewhere inside Napoleon. Lord, when did he get this pathetic? Illya would be laughing at him if he was here.

With a shake of his head Napoleon turns off the record, finishes his drink and heads to bed. Tomorrow is going to be a quiet day, unless by some Christmas miracle Illya manages to complete his mission and make it home. It’s foolish to hope, but Napoleon finds he’s doing it anyway, right up until the moment when he falls asleep.

***

He’s not sure what wakes him up, only that he goes from being asleep to sitting bolt upright in bed. Years of training have taught him to wake up at the slightest disturbance. Something like that can mean the difference between living and dying when on a mission. Something must have woken him up and although nothing seems amiss he knows better than to just go back to sleep.

The clock beside his bed tells him it’s 2am when he reaches across to grab his gun, so he’s only been asleep for a couple of hours. Nothing in his bedroom seems out of place so he silently slides out of bed, gun in hand, and pads into the living room. 

The first thing he notices is that the Christmas tree lights are on, and they definitely hadn’t been when he’d gone to bed. The second thing he notices, and it’s a bit hard to miss, is the body lying half under the tree. He knows it’s Illya. He’d recognize him anywhere, even if from this angle all he can see are Illya’s waist and legs. 

For a second all Napoleon can do is stare, terrified that Illya is dead. That he came back at Christmas only to expire on the floor of Napoleon’s apartment. Then he sees the soft rise and fall of Illya’s chest. Not dead then. Napoleon allows himself to relax a little. Either Illya is so exhausted he fell asleep before making it as far as the bed or, and Napoleon suspects this is more likely, he’s injured and lost consciousness once he reached the safety of Napoleon’s apartment. 

Despite his urge to check on Illya, Napoleon first checks the rest of the apartment and finds nothing out of place. What had woken him must have been Illya. Satisfied there’s no risk of danger Napoleon moves back over to Illya and kneels down beside him, shaking his shoulder in an attempt to rouse him.

“Illya? Illya, come on there’s a perfectly good bed just a few feet away. You don’t need to sleep on the floor.”

When that gets no response he carefully rolls Illya onto his back. Illya is cold, and there’s snow in his hair which is only just starting to melt. It hadn’t been snowing when Napoleon went to bed so it must have only just started. What’s more concerning than Illya’s cold skin, however, is the obvious bullet hole in Illya’s right shoulder. He’s wearing a white coat and the whole sleeve is stained red. 

He needs to get Illya moved to somewhere that isn’t under his Christmas tree so he can get the wound patched up and see if Illya is injured anywhere else. Tending to his partner’s wounds is something Napoleon is sadly now well experienced at, but that doesn’t mean it has ever gotten any easier. 

He pats Illya’s face, half hoping it will do nothing to wake him. Stitching his wound will probably be easier if Illya’s unconscious for it. 

A low moan escapes Illya’s lips. Well, so much for that. 

“Illya?”

Illya groans and attempts to open his eyes, squeezing them shut when the lights from the tree shine right in his face. Napoleon mutters a curse under his breath and reaches over to switch them off, before brushing a comforting hand over Illya’s cheek. 

“Want to try that again?”

“No,” Illya grumbles, squeezing his eyes even more tightly shut. “I want to sleep. Go away.”

Napoleon can’t stop himself from chuckling. If Illya is alert enough to complain then he’s probably going to be fine once Napoleon has fixed him up.

“Well, I’ve got bad news for you, partner, you’re bleeding so you can’t sleep just yet. Come on, I need you to sit up.”

Illya lets out a small moan of protest but opens his eyes and, without the lights shining in them, they stay open this time. He frowns when he focuses on Napoleon.

“Napoleon? What are you doing here?”

Napoleon blinks in surprise for a second and then smiles. “Last time I checked I live here.”

Illya raises his head, narrowly avoiding being hit in the face by a low hanging bauble. His frown deepens when he looks past Napoleon and realizes where he is. “Oh. Then what am I doing here?”

Napoleon shrugs. “I woke up and found you lying here. I figured you must have come in and passed out.”

Illya’s got that look on his face. The look he gets when he’s trying to work out a puzzle or part of an assignment that he can’t figure out. 

“Napoleon, what day is it?”

“Christmas Day,” Napoleon replies with a smile. “Well, only just. It’s a little after 2am. You couldn’t have waited until- Illya?”

Illya’s staring at him now, and his face has turned so pale Napoleon’s scared he’s going to faint again. 

“This isn’t possible,” Illya murmurs mostly to himself, but loud enough that Napoleon can hear.

“What is it?” Napoleon places a steadying hand on Illya’s uninjured arm. He’s looking less like he’s about to pass out now but Napoleon isn’t taking any changes. “You’re in pretty bad shape, Illya. If you’ve lost some time it’s totally understandable.”

Illya shakes his head. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. Napoleon, two hours ago I was infiltrating the Thrush base.”

“Okay…”

“The base was in Alaska.”

Napoleon blinks in surprise. “What?”

Illya nods. “It’s true. The plan was to break in at midnight on Christmas Eve. It seems even international criminal organizations give their staff time off at Christmas. There was only to be a few guards making routine patrols. I managed to make it inside and retrieve the files but I must have missed something, or triggered a silent alarm. All I know is that as I was making my escape the guards all arrived at once and started shooting at me. I managed to make it over the fence but not without bringing a little souvenir with me.” 

He pointed at his injured arm.

“It was snowing heavily when I got over the fence. I had a vehicle nearby but the snow was falling so heavily I must have lost my bearings and I couldn’t find it. Instead I found myself stumbling around in the wilderness, certain I was going to die. I remember thinking how upset you were going to be with me for dying on Christmas Day of all days. I don’t know what happened after that. I suppose I must have lost consciousness from either the blood loss or the cold. The next thing I knew I was waking up here.”

Napoleon knelt there, letting Illya’s words sink in for a moment when suddenly a thought occurred to him. He climbed to his feet and went over to the window. The skies were clear and the ground was dry.

“When I first found you,” he says as he moves back over to Illya’s side. “there was snow in your hair. I assumed it was snowing outside but it’s not.”

Illya stares at him. “Napoleon, what does this mean? How can it be possible?”

“I don’t know, but we can try and figure it out later. Come on, I need to take a look at that arm. Can you stand?”

“We will soon find out,” Illya says with just a hint of that dry humor Napoleon loves. Together they ease Illya out from under the tree and get him to his feet, Napoleon with his hand on the small of Illya’s back in case he stumbles. They make it to the bathroom without incident, however, and Napoleon gets Illya seated on the edge of the tub. 

“Can you manage to get you clothes off?” Napoleon asks as he rummages in the cabinet for the first aid kit. “Or do you need some help?”

Illya’s mouth quirks into a smile. “Usually I would enjoy asking for your assistance, Napoleon, but I think in this instance I can manage. Could you fetch me some pajamas to wear? My clothes are rather damp and cold.”

Napoleon sets the first aid kit down in the sink and leaves Illya to get undressed. Now he’s as puzzled as his partner is over how Illya came to be here. Even the fastest plane couldn’t get from Alaska to New York in two hours, and that’s not taking into account that Illya was wandering around in the wilderness and apparently nowhere near any sort of airport. The whole thing didn’t make any sense no matter how hard Napoleon considered every possibility. Perhaps they’ll think of something in the morning when they’re both less exhausted.

He returns to the bathroom and hands Illya the warmest pair of pajamas he could find, checking over Illya’s body for any other injuries and finding none, before Illya dresses his bottom half and leaves his torso bare so Napoleon can stitch him up.

The shoulder wound itself isn’t as bad as Napoleon had suspected. The bullet has gone through cleanly and there doesn’t appear to be any serious damage beyond the hole. 

“I think you’ll live,” Napoleon says as he cleans the wound, causing Illya to let out a low grunt of pain. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Illya replies. “It would be a shame to survive a snowstorm under mysterious circumstances only for me to die in your bathroom of all places.”

He’s joking. A defense mechanism they all employ when in stressful situations. Napoleon knows that the mystery of how Illya came to be here is eating away at his partner as much as it is him.

“All done,” he says as he finishes stitching the wound. “Let’s get some sleep. Maybe this will make more sense in the morning. Although technically it is the morning now I suppose.”

Illya simply nods. “I am rather tired.”

He must be if he’s willing to admit it out loud. Illya is the sort who will push himself to his limits and then beyond, stopping only when his body forces him to. 

“Come on,” Napoleon says and guides Illya to the bedroom even though Illya knows exactly where it is. He pulls back the covers and waits for Illya to climb in first before joining him. As soon as Napoleon settles Illya snuggles close, his cool skin instinctively seeking out Napoleon’s warmth. 

“Better?” Napoleon asks as Illya rests his head on his shoulder.

“Mm...much.” Illya replies sleepily.

Napoleon presses a kiss to the top of Illya’s head, causing his partner to let out a contented sigh.

“Illya?”

“Mm?”

“Merry Christmas.”

Illya murmurs something intelligible in reply. It might have been Merry Christmas or it might have been something Russian. Napoleon just can’t tell. The words trail off towards the end until all Napoleon can hear is the soft sound of Illya breathing. 

He doesn’t think he has ever been more happy.

Warm and content with Illya in his arms Napoleon closes his eyes and allows himself to relax. He’s just on the verge of falling asleep when his eyes snap open. Was that sleigh bells? Coming from outside?

He listens carefully but the sound has faded now and all he can hear once again is the sound of Illya breathing.

“Illya? Did you hear that?”

No reply. 

Napoleon gives a small shake of his head and closes his eyes again. He’s probably just imagining things.


End file.
